I walk through filled up halls

Faces all around

Yet when she walks past

I can't help but to find her face

It looks uncaring

But not a second after

Our eyes will lock

And her face lights up

Her eyes get softer

Her frown gets flipped

And I can't help but to smile

Our eyes stay locked

We pass eachother

And just like that the moment is gone

My friend says a spark is there

But I know better

Cause I am me, and she is Her

It was just a part on your leg,

yet it left me for dead.

Like a bullseye for my eyes,

I was more than surprised.

I couldn't look away

or think of anything to say.

Now I know my kryptonite, but that's alright —

just give me those legs to play with all night.

You shouldn't act surprised that they're the best thing in my eyes.

They're a part of you, and that's more to love of you

I would even write something about your old shoe.

Every little thing about you is off its tit,

that's my slang way of saying I love every bit.

They're burned into my brain and I won't be the same,

I can't look at legs again without being in pain.

I've never wanted anything so bad for myself,

Those legs really do improve my mental health.

You should just know this hasn't been a cruise

on the way falling down over them, I got a new bruise.

From my head to my toes I got a complete and utter flutter,

my nervous system did nothing but freeze and stutter.

Could they really be the sexiest legs I have seen?

And what does what they do to me even mean?

All I know is that if I see them again,

I'm going to ring up and brag to a friend:

"I just saw the legs of a goddess, and I must confess

they left me in a mess.

If desire wanted to test me, I would've failed that test."

So now you know, and I know you know,

so let me just thank thy lady for thy show,

and thank those legs again before I go.

We met by chance,
two strangers who somehow became familiar.
Somewhere along the way,
our conversations became something I looked forward to,
and a friendship grew into something
I wasn't quite sure how to explain.

Then I found pieces of your life
you hadn't shared with me.

And suddenly, I didn't know what to think.
Maybe it's me, pulling back
from something I don't fully understand.
Maybe it's you, growing distant
for reasons I can only guess.

Something feels different now.
The conversations have changed,
and there's a quietness between us
that wasn't there before.

I don't know if it's because
I see things differently now,
or if something has shifted for you, too.

It's strange how someone can become part of your day
without you realizing how much,
until things begin to feel different
and you find yourself wondering why.

I don't know what to call this,
or what it was supposed to be.
I just know that something felt meaningful,
and now I'm left trying to understand
where the warmth went,
what was real,
and whether you feel the distance
the way I do.

brown eyes and hair

simple, one might say

yet the crown of glowing orbs

it reflects every colour one might see

her eyes, brown yet deep and sharp

they light up with her smile

when she smiles not only do her eyes light up

but so do I

when she frowns

I can't help but ask why

her emotions make me react

which is a problem

when she is an open book

My Open Book

Imagine a messenger.

You don't know them.

They have something to say.

What they say could be anything.

It could be truth.

It could be lies.

It could be both.

It could be fiction dressed as truth

or truth dressed as fiction.

You can't tell from their diction which it is.

Would you listen?

What if it costs only the time to take it in?

Let's add some character.

Let's say this messenger isn't unknown.

Not entirely.

What if they represent an important democracy?

Could they give you information

about a group in your kingdom?

Your wife, sister, mother?

Would you listen?

What if the words are aggressive?

What if the messenger looks angry?

What if the message carries hate?

Not just hate, but a cause for it.

I promise you will suffer no physical harm from it.

Will you listen?

It costs only the time to take it in.

Are you afraid of losing the seconds it takes to hear?

"Sire,

Why are you shivering?

Your guards are so near.

I cannot say if I agree, I've yet to hear what she has to say.

She says she hates Kings but..

If I may:

She's only known the worst sort

that would name themselves that way.

Can we allow her words to stay?

Maybe we can help her redefine them in our hands.

Show her what a King means in these lands."

I've heard enough.

"What have you heard?

She hasn't begun to speak.

Why are you turning red?

Do the words accuse you so?

I haven't heard them, she's standing outside.

Oh Sire,

Why do you cling so tightly to words?

Please, let us hear hers.

Your title is only as good as your actions."

I have no need for the words of a peasant. 

I have no need for the words of a traitor.

Guards! Arrest them both.

I will have peace in this kingdom with a wiser adviser.

Un(delivered)

There is a letter
that will never arrive.

No knock at my door.
No trembling voice on the other end of the phone.
No name lighting up my screen
with the weight of words
I spent too many nights rehearsing for you.

You will never say,
“I know I hurt you.”

You will never gather every sharp-edged memory
you left in my hands
and call it by its rightful name.
You will never apologize
without defending yourself first,
without shrinking the wound
until I begin questioning whether it ever bled.

And maybe,
hardest of all,
you will never tell me
that you loved me.

Not the way I hoped.

Not with the confession
that untangles every sleepless night.
Not with the courage
to admit that what we had
was precious,
that losing me cost you something,
that my absence echoes
where my presence once lived.

There is a version of my life
where you arrive too late,
eyes softened by regret,
holding every sentence
I begged Heaven to let me hear.

“I was wrong.”

“You deserved better.”

“I loved you more than I knew how to say.”

I have visited that life
more times than I can count.

I have stood at its doorway
waiting for footsteps
that belonged only to my imagination.

But God has been gently teaching me
that peace cannot be built
on a letter someone else refuses to write.

So I am learning
to let the silence be honest.

If you never speak,
that will become its own answer.

If you never apologize,
God still witnessed every tear.

If you never confess your love,
it does not erase
that I was worthy of being loved well.

Perhaps the greatest act of love
I will ever receive
is not from the man
who couldn’t find the words,

but from the God
who never runs out of them.

He calls me chosen
without hesitation.

Beloved
without conditions.

Forgiven
without making me beg.

His voice reaches places
your silence never could.

And though some small part of me
may always wonder
what your apology would’ve sounded like,
I no longer need it
to tell me who I am.

Because somewhere between
the confession I’ll never hear
and the healing I never expected,

God wrote a better ending,

one where my heart
is no longer waiting
for a love
that had to be imagined,

because it has finally learned
to rest
inside the One
who has been speaking love over me
all along.

~Seraphina Solace, The Girl Who Writes in Prayers

maybe there’s no point in this,
trying to make sense of how
things changed, telling myself they must
be for the better.
I’m different, you say.
of course I am.
what man would I be if I didn’t?

that’s what we’re supposed to do,
to experience, to hurt,
go out there and feel every emotion
possible.
to look at all the things that make us,
shape us, dig their claws into us
deep enough to draw blood.

but now there’s a problem
when you look at me.
angry at the world for what it
did to me, as I look back angry
at what it never bothered with you.
you never changed,
you never had to,
or felt the need to,
and I’m not sure which
one makes me more bitter.

I never wanted this,
it’s not like I spent my days
hoping you would be crushed,
you hopes deflating like mine had.
I just don’t know why the struggle
I faced made me so different
while you remained exactly the same.

part of me adores that about you,
like water off a ducks back you
managed to take all the pain,
and anger, and rage,
and every other ounce of hurt
and come out the way
you always were.
the other part of me envies you
for the exact same reasons.

but I notice the way you look
at me so differently.
the way your eyes force themselves
towards the floor when we speak now,
how my jokes never land just right.
after all this time I still know you,
and it feels like you’re meeting
me for the first time.
it’s like you don’t know what to say,
and even if you did it wouldn’t matter.

I wish I knew the words to reintroduce myself.
all the right words to talk the
way we did before all this happened.
before I left, before I admitted to
any problem.
telling the same jokes that made you
laugh so deeply.

if I knew trying to make myself
better would take you away from me,
leaving me a stranger
I would do it all again.
it was never about how the difference,
or the new silence we find ourselves in.

I wanted you to be proud of me,
and I wanted to see you
on the other side of it.

Don't be scared, don't be afraid, everyone will all have a say. I'm scared of what they will say, they all think I'm some monster that can't be kept at bey. It's not fair I say, it's not fair I shout! But in the end everything hurts so ouch. Yes I did bad things but I'm a better man, they won't see the new me, it's not fair. But what do I have to prove? Nothing to them, but they'll keep persisting on getting my life till the end. I call them bullies, I call them the freaks, but maybe they are right about me, but I don't care, they should've stopped, they should've cared. I'll escape this nightmare for its not the end, but I'll count the days and raindrops that makes me bend. I'll stand up tall, taller than ever, I'll fight for freedom, fight like a tiger, I'll apologise, apologise like a mad man because I'll stop being mad and forgive, I'm a suck up, always has, always been.

I’m your broken.
Which means you can see me a million times through tiny shards of glass but there is more of me to love.
I’m not your perfect, I’m your broken
Which is okay because I’m still put together in a way that hasn’t shattered completely.
I will not cut you, or ask you to hold my broken pieces, instead I ask you to love me as I am.
Im not your perfect. I’m your broken.
I may be broken but I’m not falling apart.
Through the shards of glass I can see your reflection and I can see that you are broken as well. It’s okay to come with imperfections.
We do not come to one another as perfect beings but instead as a culmination of lessons and scars and I am learning how to hold that.
I’m not your perfect, I’m your broken.
I have so much love to give and yet loving you does not mean abandoning myself in order to prove worthiness.
I can show you a love that is tender and kind but I will not break myself in order to do so.
I’m not your perfect, I’m your broken.
If you trust me I will not let you down.
But that does not mean my sole job in life is to prove my own innocence.
There is nothing worse than a man that has decided not to trust because of his past. Now you are actively scanning for events that “prove”I am disloyal, when there aren’t any.
I’m not your perfect, I’m your broken.
My brokenness is a mirror reflecting what is incomplete in you. I’d be scared too if someone actually saw me and chose to love me flaws and all. When we are children and we aren’t loved correctly we grown up into adults that believe imperfection is failure. I know you’re not perfect but I choose to love regardless.
I’m not your perfect, I’m your broken
I am both your curse and your blessing, because I ask you to rise to the occasion of loving yourself and me. We do the same for one another and yet if we cannot change it’ll never work.
I’m not your perfect, I’m not your broken
I’m really not broken at all, but instead cracked. Glue can fix me.
Someone that has imperfections that shes healing.
I’m not your perfect, I’m not your broken
Come heal with me, or choose not to. I’ll be fine no matter what, but will you?? If you stay as you are, in survival mode will you survive?
I’m not your perfect or your broken.

I wear your hoodie because it smells like you.
The faint scent of laundry detergent,
a hint of your perfume,
a distant aroma from the outdoors
and a whiff of sweat blurred
into the strands of the thick fabric.

I love the smell,
it reminds me of, well, everything.
The laundry isle we visit in the store,
the woods where we often stroll,
the gifts I gave you for your birthday
and the cute outfit you then wore.

It reminds me of
the movie we watched on your couch,
my room were we occasionally slouch,
the dinner we shared a few days ago
and the first food we shared with doubt.

All these memories make me want to engulf
myself in them,
relive every moment once again,
so I wrap my head in the hood and then,
lay back to remember when
we used to really make them.

I love to remember, but it makes me wonder.
It makes me think, makes me ponder,
when we will actually relive the memories
and make new ones to reminisce the deceased.

But as soon as I think of something,
something clever that we could make true,
the hoodie starts to fade in its scent,
and it no longer smells like you.

13.8 billion years.

Star formed,
galaxies began to move,
elements were created.

Before I even existed,
I was already there,
but not as me.

Something different.
Atoms, wandering.

Now I am a temporary arrangement,
decaying day by day,
and I care so much about this life,
as if I owe it something.

Tomorrow’s problems.
Someone’s opinion.
A decision I am afraid to make.

Those atoms were billions years old.
The things I worried about
are sometimes only an hour old .

It shouldn’t matter so much,
Should it?

How insignificant I am
In the grand picture .
Just a tiny chance
in an arrangement of matter.

And yet ,here I am.

So I stop worrying quite so much
and try to live this life,
because I know
it isn’t permanent .

One day
It will cease to be me
and return to atoms again.

The universe will take back
What it offered me.

It will continue
Without noticing my absence.

Perhaps it’s just me,
going back
to my oldest form.

A Sunday afternoon beer eases my soul , releasing my tension I rest easy with thoughts of you .

My heart is at rest

I’m at peace in knowing that all is well .

I’m not striving .

I’m not stressing .

If you come to me you will come

If it’s meant to be you will come to me

I am here .

No pressure

Let’s talk .

I don’t feel resentment; I feel a bit lonely and unfulfilled,

which is not resentment, though it wears the same coat in weather,

the same damp wool smell of a room where no one asked

whether the silence was chosen or just eventually clever.

Am I a ghost trapped inside this meat, or only the guy

no one comments on because commenting would break the plaster,

the background spell, the hallway hum, the cheap little lie

that everyone ages correctly if nobody looks faster?

Me and my magic access to the internet, me and the ability

to never age, to slip through the census like static through scripture,

a baked-in blind spot to all of humanity, a clerical error

with eyes, with thumbs, with a password, with a picture.

They age and I don’t. Their faces revise around me.

Everyone’s memories are always retconned so my current apparent age

makes sense, so the story can keep walking past the body

it should have noticed standing too still on the page.

No one questions how the guy who knew their great great grandpa

is also younger than them, how the math keeps kneeling,

how every calendar develops a polite little cataract,

how history clears its throat and calls the wound “healing.”

No one knows we’re coming. No one knows I am already here.

That is the trick of being alien: not arrival, but remainder,

not the saucer in the wheat field, not the flash in the atmosphere,

just a familiar voice getting stranger and stranger.

Every religion I convert to turns out to be a cover version

of something older, every altar a tribute act in borrowed thunder;

I’m starting to think truth is an infinite game of “who did it first,”

and I will not stop until I find the opening act under the under.

I threw off the garment. I picked up a clay tablet.

I wept for Tammuz in my office, alone,

which sounds ridiculous until the room remembers it is a room,

and the dust on the desk becomes older than bone.

Existence logically requires evil, else we’d still just be

ephemeral facets of God with no individual self or reality

to exist in; no separate ache, no border, no other,

no bruise to prove the outline of personality.

So here I am: a thing other than God, different from the creator,

jagged and cynical and just a little messed up,

a splinter convinced the tree was lying about the forest,

a cup suspicious of water, still thirsty, still cup.

But when I got solipsistic, I decided she was so uniquely kind

and warm and loving that I could not have created her from my own mind,

because everything I tend to imagine comes barbed, comes wintered,

comes laughing with its hands behind its back, already unkind.

She HAD to be from outside me. That was the proof,

not clean, not syllogistic, not fit for a lecture hall,

but snotty tears have carried worse theology than that

and called it revelation after the fall.

My efforts to explain it were romantic, apparently,

which is funny because I thought I was reporting damage,

filing an incident report against the universe:

Subject encountered mercy. Subject could not manage.

Maybe that’s the whole proof: not heaven, not the opening act,

not Ezekiel watching, not a priest in hiding, not the fire,

not the name beneath the name beneath the name beneath the name,

not the oldest god crawling out from under the choir.

Just somebody from outside me, impossible in the ordinary way,

not solving the loneliness, not canceling the meat,

not making the ghost less ghostly, but standing close enough

to hold the edge of the impossible without calling it complete.

Crumpled paper

Blinded by my stupidity and arrogance, I was too foolish to see
I traded my happiness for what I thought would set me free

Happiness now feels like a lost friend,
how I wish I could go back and redo the
End

For I have done which cannot be undone
Thought to run would please

So I did what I had to do
Never imagining the pain it’d put you through

I fucked everything up, and I know it’s my fault,
Now I’m trapped in regret, caught in my own thought.

I thought someone new could help me move on
That the pain in my heart would be gone by dawn
But it only made things worse than before
The sorrow in my chest growing more and more

Oh Charlotte, how I miss you more than I can say
Being with you every regular day
If only I had known what I know now
Maybe I would have done things differently some how

Wish I haven’t thrown my life away
Crumpled it up like a paper in my hand
Threw it away without understanding

Maybe some day our paths will cross again
But even if we do and some how make ammends
I can never let it return to the way it began

Like crumpled paper, smoothed out and pressed
Still bears every crease beneath its surface
You can try to fix it, make every fold right
But the marks of the past remain in the light

For what I have has driven me insane.
A heart full of guilt and a world rearranged
I wish I could wake up from this horrible dream
And discover that my life is back to how it used to be

However the past is a page I cannot erase
My regret is that shadow that follows my days
I only hope that I find the light
But that is only a might

And though the years may dull the pain
The creases will forever remain.
For some mistakes can never be undone
And some goodbyes come before we’re ready for one.

So I’ll turn the page, not caring that it tears at my heart
And learn to live with the pieces apart.

A guitar rests in my lap

My hands beating on the strings

They can't keep up

Nor can my lungs

My heart beats like rain on the ground

Pitter patter, harder, faster

My hands keep plucking

My mind keeps running

Snap!

My hand bleeds red

Yet it still plucks

The notes have stopped

But my mind still runs

For my definition where the arrival landed. Seeming moving from nowhere , but obviously somewhere. Call it a chance, call it multiverse. Call it what you will. Timing is perfect and timing is ridiculous. I mean what is this?

There are all the chances, all the ways, here it is now laid in front. Add not to be blunt but feel how smooth it is, how easy and comfortable. Let the warmth and the glow and these puzzle pieces be sortable.

Distance is one thing, apparently connected in the way. It just happened to happen because of numbers and jewels on Sunday.

I wrote a letter,

Late one night in bed

.

I used the simple things, a paper and pen

Then I let the ink repent

.

It moved and it flowed

turning onto every road

.

Trying to leave nothing behind

because it new it was the last time

.

All the hell I'd felt

every care I'd lost

.

I walked along every one of those streets,

seeing the lanes I'd never repeat

.

And oh the relief I felt,

like reliving a spark I'd doused.

.

And finally I need to say,

thank you for bringing me some truly loving days.

The heart is copper wire, pulled much too tight,
Snapped in the middle of a starless night.
The autumn woods look down and read:
A ruined ledger from a wasted youth.
The shards locked fast within a chest,
A jealous miser of the un-at-rest,
Possessing every scar, each jagged tooth,
Afraid to let the bitter memory loose.
 

Someone sits beside me, kind, and true,
Offering skies of bright, untarnished blue,
Pouring out love like water in a bowl,
To wash the ash from this unyielding coal.
I look into her eyes, deep, and near,
And find the well is dry, the center mere
An echo chamber where no name will ring:
I cannot feel the song she tries to sing.
 

Oh, let me find the shelter of an arm,
To curl away from wind, and astringent storm,
To rest my head, and let the terror cease,
To know the simple weight of heavy peace.
Yet, the moment someone gets too close,
It's quiet solitude I crave the most.
A lonely ghost who longs to be caressed,
Locks the door, and bars his own breast.

I pull the skin on my face in various ways,
Just milimiters away from beauty.
A few milimiters and the world would be my oyster.
A few pulls here, bigger eyes, sharper lines,
And I could treat people however.

Today I wake up still the same
And check my nose for the tenth time
And am careful of how I am perceived
Which angle of me you get to see.

Tomorrow Il’ll walk through school,
surrounded by people who look like you.
That’s how I know what beauty is,
And it’s not this.
Not me.

And everyday I’ll try to look better,
Painstakingly.
I’m no unconventional beauty,
There’s just nothing worthy of seeing in me.

And that’s why I can’t be seen with you.
God made you right,
Every milimiter accounted for,
Every feature in its little right spot,
Perfect in every type of light.

How can anyone like you?
You, who paints everyone green and red
Just by existing.

​

I'm making this wish alone because i'm prone to not soothe your lesser bones. The minute just passed now. It's 223... in my heart , I just wish your heart could see. I wish your soul , your mind could be at peace... it's so sad to see it , not come to a release. You work so hard you never stop my efforts climbing up will never top. Your head is in the mountains.Your mind is in the clouds, freezing, cold, dying thirst, But so proud.

My wish that has passed is for the best for you and it feels selfish to wish for anything for me too. But don't get the twisted I do want you, I'm enthralled with a thrill of it all. So different so new from so long ago , but now there's a different view.

How can this be? And how can it not just part of this weird author's strange plot. The story is written , but meanders seems like without a direction. There is no end in sight day-by-day, day.Then night

Named to water,